


Potterklok

by Brandschlag



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Metalocalypse (Cartoon)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternative Master of Death Concept, BAMF Harry Potter, Battle of Hogwarts, Book 7: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Crack Treated Seriously, Deathly Hallows, Final Battle, Gen, Giant Squid Animagus, Godric Gryffindor's a nudist, Inspired by Music, Magic Tricks, Magic without a wand, Master of Death Harry Potter, Music, No Romance, No Smut, Powerful Harry Potter, Resurrection Stone, just a bit of crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-18
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2020-03-07 09:47:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18870742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brandschlag/pseuds/Brandschlag
Summary: Harry Potter meets Nathan Explosion just before he dies at Voldemort's hands. Consequently he learns to wield the mighty power of Music, - Metal to be precise. Somewhere along the way Godric Gryffindor appears. Chaos ensues.Be warned, this story contains physical violence, murder, lyrical allusions, a Metalhead Albus Dumbledore and a pair of hairy bollocks.





	Potterklok

**Author's Note:**

> This story somehow wrote itself after listening once too often to Dethklok - Awaken.  
> If you liked it, please leave me Kudos, Bookmark, or a Review. Anything really. Feedback, you know? It helps :D  
> If you didn't like it, well ... get thee hence then.

"The power of love," muttered Harry from where he had observed the Death Eaters talk about him not showing up. "Bollocks! This is so not-doable!" He glanced at the Resurrection Stone in his hands and immediately the pace of his breathing went frantic. He did not want to die! And he did not know if, after seeing his family, he would want to remain alive.

The sound of leaves rustling made Harry snap his head around. There, a lone centaur stood in the dark of the Forbidden Forest. He was indistinguishable from most other centaurs Harry had met except for a small spiked leather band he wore around his right forearm.

Staring first at Harry and then into the sky, the centaur began to chant, "Fata Sidus Oritur! We look to the skies to watch a new star awaken..."

Harry opened his mouth, but before he could speak up a tall, eerie spectre, a ghost maybe, he wasn't sure, suddenly appeared next to him.

The centaur stomped its hooves and began to chant once more, "Oh, the Doomstar is born, oh the deathly light. And the star will turn to blood on this prophet's night. And the Prophecy has warned us that one of you must die... Before this is all over... one of you must die!"

"All right," a deep voice suddenly said. "Didn't think I had that much beer to drink. Is this Finland again? I hate fucking Finland! I need more beer!"

Upon hearing the apparition speak Harry quite involuntarily blinked, and when he looked again the centaur was gone. Meanwhile the apparition became clearer as it spoke and then, with its last declaration of hatred towards a certain nordic nation, it went fully into focus.

Harry, despite his shakiness and previous panic cracked a grin at the words. He slipped the Invisibility Cloak off his head without thinking and said, "No, this is Britain. Who are you? Are you a new ghost?" He knew that most British ghosts sooner or later came to Hogwarts.

"Ghost?" The apparition asked gravely and looked down at itself. Arms were raised, the long hair was whipped left and right and then a strong fist went harmlessly through one of the thick trees. "That's…" It hesitated, but then with a growl exclaimed, "Brutal!"

"Keep it down!" Harry hissed at the tall spectre. "Or the Death Eaters will hear you!"

"DETH Eaters?"

Harry flinched at the sudden menacing tone. "Yes!" He said, anger lacing his voice at the reminder of the all the people who already had died that day, "Death Eaters! You know? Voldemort's followers?"

"Those fucking regular jack-offs!"

"Huh?"

"DETH Eaters! These people give me something to hate! I hate them! Fucking hate! Them! HATE!"

Harry replied almost without thinking, "Okay – that's good, I suppose?" He reached up to adjust his glasses, scratching at the dirt and dried crust of blood of one of the small wounds upon his face. "I hate them too." He grimaced a grimly smile. "The Headmaster, Dumbledore believed hating people to be too easy, making it sorts of wrong to simply walk the path that's easy rather than the one that is right." He snorted. "But I hate them, still. And I'll always hate them!"

The memory of Dumbledore with his damned smile rose up in Harry's mind and immediately he felt a surge of annoyance, anger and some more well up in him.

But before he could dwell any longer on it the sounds of steps quickly coming closer interrupted the silence of the Forbidden Forest. A word was spoken, too quietly to make it out and yet loud enough to know that it was a spell, and then Dolohov and Yaxley, the two Death Eaters Harry had seen leave before burst into the scene, their wands trained at where Harry stood.

"Potter!" A voice suddenly yelled, then a laugh followed. "Thought it'd be just another animal!"

Wands flared, and immediately Harry froze up and all his bones went as heavy as lead, the Resurrection Stone in his fist digging into his skin.

"There you are, and we thought the Dark Lord's put too much trust in you." Yaxley laughed, and thrust his wand towards where Harry stood, levitating him off the ground.

Meanwhile Dolohov conjured ropes and had them bound Harry tightly. "There, all and well wrapped up! He's gonna enjoy the present, d'you reckon?"

Yaxley agreed readily with a barked laugh. They both seemed far too happy to see him.

Harry should have felt fearful, panicky maybe, or maybe angry at being caught and bound, trapped, but all he felt was confusion as the two Death Eaters ignored the spectre, walked through it even without so much as batting an eye.

Harry sought out the vivid green eyes of the spectre, a brighter green than his own, and stared at him as his wand was ripped from his robes. Dolohov stuffed it into his pocket.

"Better go back. Wouldn't do to have him wait any longer," said Yaxley, and with a small gesture of his wand, Harry began to follow as he turned around and began to walk off.

They walked deeper into the forest. Harry, without much choice in the matter was following behind at a steady pace. From the corner of his eye he thought that he saw the spectre follow, though it seemed reluctant.

They had traveled on a few minutes when Harry saw light ahead, and Yaxley and Dolohov stepped out into a clearing that Harry recognised as the place where Hagrid's old friend, the acromantula Aragog had once made its nest.

The remnants of the vast webbing that had spanned all over the clearing was still there, but the swarm of descendants that had attacked Harry and Ron years ago had been driven out by the Death Eaters, to fight for their cause.

There, a fire burned in the middle of the clearance; its flickering light fell over the crowd of silent Death Eaters. Some were unmasked, others wore hood and mask to hide their faces, and all together they seemed on-edge; some of them shifted on their feet, others were breathing a bit too labouredly.

Harry saw familiar faces among them and it made something wild and ghastly mad twist inside his guts. It stabbed at him from inside out, it tore at him, and he realised that he truly wished to hurt these people. It aroused a special dread and fury within him, so close and yet too far away.

As his eyes fell on Voldemort, flashes of dead faces tore at his mind, and all pity he had once imagined to feel for this cripple of a man was gone with the sudden wind that breathed a cool breeze through the clearing.

Harry saw him for what he was. Voldemort, he decided there and then as he was dragged behind the two Death Eaters, was a failure of his own making, something he could not blame onto anyone but himself. The failure of his efforts, the failure of his magic and soul, the failure of being a human born with great potential, it all was not some demiurgic deity's symbolic play, to paint a blank canvas with the artful story of Tom Marvolo Riddle, no, it was his personal failure, and Harry would show it to him! He would throttle with his own two hands this failed nature Voldemort had cultivated, had raised into magnanimous visions of some personal godhead.

Harry Potter, the wretched infidel, versus the failed Dark Lord Voldemort.

Every pair of eyes was fixed upon Voldemort, who, as was his flair, stood with his head bowed, and his white boney hands grasped around the Elder Wand before him.

When Dolohov and Yaxley entered the luminiferous aether of the magical fire, Voldemort looked up. The moment he saw the floating form of Harry behind the pair of Death Eaters, he smiled a thin lipless smile that disappeared just as quickly as it had come.

"Harry! No!" A desperate voice roared with heartbreaking anguish through the night, and second later Harry could see Hagrid sitting trussed and tied to the massive tree behind him.

The giants roared their fury skywards upon hearing the runt of their kin speak, and quickly a masked Death Eater stabbed his wand at Hagrid, silencing him with a barely visible flash of spelllight.

"My Lord,–" Bellatrix Lestrange spoke up, her voice trembling with excitement.

Voldemort glanced at her, his red eyes flaring with unspoken warning and promise of torture. He raised his hands to wave away her words and focused his eyes again on Harry.

"I knew you would come, Harry Potter," said Voldemort with high and clear voice. He spoke softly, as if he was talking to someone dear to him. "You are noble, enduring - a true Gryffindor. Much like your mother, and father, but this ends here." He swept his arm in a welcoming gesture, bowed lightly and added, "Death welcomes you, Harry."

With a small gesture Voldemort beckoned Dolohov and Yaxley to step up.

"Come, my faithful. You have done well," said Voldemort, yet he did not smile or show any outward sign of appreciation however. "Join the ranks, now, and bear witness to this!" He waited for half a breath for his Death Eaters to follow his command before he turned his eyes once more on Harry.

Silence layed itself like a blanket upon the scene; the Death Eaters were like statues, frozen at the command of their Master, the giants were trembling with anticipation of battle, Hagrid was struggling against his bindings with the power his mother's blood was granting him, yet all of it was for naught.

Harry could see the desperation in the half-giant's eyes, and he decided that it was good that Hagrid was bound, lest the half-giant would become the next to sacrifice himself for his sake.

After a few heartbeats at most, Voldemort elegantly moved the Elder Wand, his head was titled to the side, as if he was deciding if he would want to play a bit more with his toy or if he wanted to smash it just now and then.

He flicked the wand towards Harry and immediately the spells that had him bound and frozen broke and he was almost gently lowered to the ground. The Invisibility Cloak rippled lightly, revealing parts of his feet and legs.

Harry did not care though, instead he immediately turned to watch the spectre, invisible to all but him, walk closer until it passed by and stood between him and Voldemort.

The spectre stared at Voldemort for a few long seconds before its gaze wandered past him, dismissing the subhuman creature as of no importance. Its gaze turned into a glare upon spotting the robes and silvery masks upon the Death Eaters.

"This is bullshit," the spectre declared with its deep voice echoing through the night. It turned around to look at Harry. "This is bullshit. Why didn't you tell me that these jack-offs are religious freaks? That's not fucking cool dude."

Harry felt like laughing aloud, and so he did just that. He closed his eyes and he laughed aloud into the night and all the fear of death fled his body as his head and limbs, his belly and chest shook with his laughing. He felt honest amusement mix with the anger in his guts and then, when he opened his eyes again he could see a flash of green light and the spectre's fist sailing towards his face. Then everything was gone.

* * *

Harry transitioned from not perceiving anything to sudden wakeness without great fanfare, silence and blackness surrounding him. It was a little like waking up just a bit too early in the morning, when it was still dark on the in- and outside, and all the other people in the Gryffindor dormitory were still asleep and the house-elves had yet to stoke the hearth with a small fire to fill the rooms with light and warmth.

Yet waking this time was strange, as Harry had not expected to wake at all after seeing the green light zoom in on him. He was already on his feet when his eyes opened to the dark and his ears perceived nothing but his own bodily functions.

Harry took a look around, and found that he was perfectly alone. Nobody was there to watch him, nobody else was ruining this perfectly silent moment of peace.

It didn't happen right away, but after some moments of standing still Harry's mind began to process what had happened. He swayed a little back and forth as he stood there and began to acknowledge that Voldemort had killed him. It was an uprooting feeling that made him lightheaded and quickly panic returned to him.

He was dead.

Harry felt the blood rush through his body and his brain suddenly felt as if it was wrapped up in cotton wool.

This thought of his death paralysed Harry, and after a few panicky breaths that rattled through his being, made him shiver and break out in a cold sweat upon his naked body, he realised that there was something rather infantile in the presumption that he was truly dead.

If he was dead, then how could he be aware?

Yes, Harry thought to himself, he could not be dead. Instead of dwelling any further on these ideas he thought of all the people he wanted to kill. No, not kill; the word was too dull, too noble and gentle to describe what he had in mind. He wanted to annihilate the Death Eaters, tear them from limb to limb, crack their every bone, see their blood wet and seep into the earth to feed the trees and plants! He wanted to reach inside their chests, yank out their hearts and devour the bloody meat just as their last bloody breath was coughed out of their broken mouths.

Harry stared into the dark, envisioning himself some entertainment until he heard a noise reach him through the unformed nothingness that surrounded him: the small soft thumpings of something that flapped, flailed and struggled. It was a pitiful sound, and hearing it made him angry for no other reason as that it had interrupted his colourful thoughts.

He drew in a deep breath and blew out an angry snort before he finally turned into the direction he could hear the sound coming from.

For the first time since his waking he thought he might need clothings, and barely had the idea formed in his head than black shirt and trousers appeared on the ground before him. He took them and quickly pulled them on. They felt heavy and if he were to be asked, he'd say that he rather liked how they felt compared to the school robes he usually wore, though he was barefooted still.

Not wasting anymore time, Harry began to walk. His surroundings began to shift; they transitioned from nothing to everything with every step he took and within a few moments of not daring to blink Harry found himself walking through a wide and open space. It was a dark but clean hall, much larger than the Great Hall, with its enchanted ceiling and the glass for roof above it, and though the space he walked through was empty, Harry could feel, for lack of better word to describe the sensation, another presence.

As he walked, spotlights turned on with a short-lived whirring sound, their spots of light following him.

Every step that he came closer, a throbbing pain stabbed at his mind. But Harry was used to these sensations of pain from the long time he had borne the scar upon his forehead, and so he quickened his steps and after a few more he saw the thing that made these noises, and he, despite his surprise at the sight, barked a morbid laugh into the hall.

"It does me good to hear you laugh."

Harry whirled around; Albus Dumbledore was walking toward him, sprightly and upright, his long hair wild, his beard braided; he was wearing black shirt with an animated flaming Mano Cornuta on it, and a short pair of dark jeans, and though this outfit did not fit into the memory Harry had of the former Headmaster of Hogwarts, he could not rightly say that it did not look good on him.

"Oh Harry." He spread his arms wide, and he smiled his Socratic smile. A smile which inherently was not malicious or selfish, but was an acknowledgement that knows what one has done for another, that one has performed the greatest beneficence, - and Harry thought he wore it well; like a subtle hint at the power the man once wielded in life, though he felt confused as to how he ever had considered this smile to be grandfatherly.

Dumbledore hesitated for a few second as if he was carefully thinking of saying a few more words, but then he seemed to have decided and clapped happily, folding his hands before his body. "I am so happy to see you, Harry."

Harry stared at the very dead Albus Dumbledore, and after a few moments of comfortable silence he felt the need to point out the obvious, "You are dead."

His hand shot up to his throat. It hurt to speak, and his voice sounded odd. He looked confused for a short moment before the words coming out of the mouth of his former Headmaster took his mind off it.

"So I am," said Dumbledore with cheer. "And you my boy? Are you dead too then?"

"No, I'm not," said Harry matter-of-factly. He cleared his throat and went on to say,"I have already come to decide that I am alive. Therefore this all here," he gestured around, "cannot be real."

Dumbledore smiled broadly. "It is curious how we have reached this simple conclusion already, is it not Harry?"

"Is it really? I have decided that I cannot be dead." Harry closed his eyes briefly at the whimpering and flailing he could hear, swallowing the fury before he continued with flat tone, "Things-, No! The times have changed."

"Oh? Well yes," Dumbledore agreed, "times have changed quite a lot. You too seem to have changed quite a bit, Harry."

Harry looked down at himself. His hands wandered to his face, touching to his skin, and when he couldn't find the scar, he smiled a broad smile. "Yes," he confirmed, "I have changed quite a bit."

Dumbledore raised both his eyebrows, still smiling as he went on to ask "For the better, my boy? Or have you yet to decide?"

Harry thought for just a short moment on it, then replied, "I feel lighter, freer,-" he took a deep and visible breath and exhaled gustily, "I feel great, but it feels right and wrong."

"Fret not Harry,- this change will reveal its nature soon enough. I believe you shall meet whatever awaits you with your all..."

These words were oddly Dumbledorian; comforting, and yet strangely foreshadowing, but Harry's mind was quickly taken off these thoughts as all of a sudden Dumbledore sniffed the air; he sniffed, he smacked his lips and he frowned - it was such a curious sight that Harry grinned out of sheer reflex.

"The air's begun to taste of metal," said Dumbledore with wide eyes. "Oh my. I had hoped we would have a bit more time." He sighed quietly to himself, muttered a few words and then recomposed himself quickly.

Just as he spoke a few steps away new spotlights surged alive, their lights revealing a big stage with a set of various instruments upon it. At the same time the creature at their feet whimpered and wailed, flailed and struggled once more and this time Harry had enough. He turned around and bent down, his hand extending towards it.

"You mustn't pick it up," warned Dumbledore with urgency in his voice. "You can't help it, Harry!"

But Harry had no mind to help it. "Help it? Fuck that! This is practice!" declared he with deep a growl as he picked the small thing up, feeling only slight disgust at the slimy, wet and lukewarm feeling in his hand.

Then, with a sickening crunch he began to tighten his grip. He felt feeble bones break under his grip, and he rather enjoyed the feeling of it. He shook the thing, back and forth, and with every moment the throttling grip went tighter.

Under normal circumstances Harry might have been confused as to why Dumbledore was not at least attempting to stop him from doing what he was doing, but at this very moment all he had on his mind was getting rid of the pest he held in his outstretched hand.

It felt liberating to have it in his palm, to have control over its existence, and, truth be told: he reveled in the feeling of it struggling against him and his control over its survival.

The creature increased its struggle against Harry's tight grip, but soon the nature of what Harry wished for prevailed and the flailing and thrashing lessened, and then, with its last ounce of strength a tremble wrecked through the inhuman body. Instantly the small body grew cold and grey, a few drops of black blood seeping out of it as it shrunk to half its original size.

"That was cruel… and… quite Metal!" exclaimed Dumbledore with a mix of contradictory emotions in his voice. He said nothing more, standing there with an unreadable look upon his face until Harry opened his grip, the creature's body falling to smithereens like the remains of coal turned to ash.

"Are you not curious what the creature was," asked Dumbledore.

But Harry shook his head. "It's dead. It doesn't matter."

Dumbledore looked quite put out for a short moment before he composed himself. The smile returned to his face, and with a small wave he gestured from Harry to the stage. "I can't rightly refute your words, my boy. Some people fear death for just this very reason." He chuckled heartily, as if he had made a great joke Harry should have understood with ease. "And again you surprise me. But enough of that; it's time, Harry. You have to make a decision, my boy. All you have went through - this here… it could be the end of it. Or perhaps you wish for more…" Dumbledore went quiet.

Harry's eyes were drawn towards the stage. He could guess as to what Dumbledore was hinting at. "I have to go back," muttered he. "Don't I?"

As the words left his mouth, he felt some regret at voicing the idea of returning like a question. Of course he wished to return; still, there were things gnawing at him. It was an odd set of thoughts that made him feel lightheaded.

These thoughts just as much held positive feelings as it made him hesitate. For, you see, he wished to return to bring carnage upon those Death Eaters he had seen standing there, in the clearing, and this idea filled him to the brim with hot feelings of joy just as much as he wished to be done with the war and the fighting.

It was a queer combination, and yet these thoughts did not preclude each other.

"That's up to you, Harry," said Dumbledore in reply. "Regardless of the risks of catastrophe to come, of your weakness or greatness; the fact remains, Harry, that you, now, are absolutely free and therefore you are free to choose."

Harry glanced towards the stage. He hesitated. "How do I know which decision I should make? And how should I do it?"

"Nothing simpler than that! Go on," encouraged Dumbledore with warmth in his voice, "climb the stage. This is your show, my boy. You'll know once you are taking your rightful place on the stage."

Turning around, Harry stared at the stage. It was bigger than he, at the first glance, had thought it to be.

"Do it, Harry."

Dumbledore's voice,- the mention of his name spurred Harry, and without being aware of it he began to walk slowly towards the stage. The moment he realised that his feet were carrying him step by step over, he broke out into a sprint. It was an impulsive decision to run, and he could not rightly say if it was because he was afraid or because the anticipation of what was to come was driving him, but it was what it was.

Harry jumped upon the stage.

The very moment both his feet hit the elevated surface, all light except for the spotlights shining upon the stage went out and a rumbling cheer of what sounded like a thousand voices rose from the distance like a wave. The sound ebbed over the stage, leaving Harry to feel goosebumps crawling up and down his skin.

It was a sublime feeling, orgasmic in a certain way, and yet so very different, almost humbling in its nature. It aroused something in him and it made him feel infinitely powerful yet small all the same.

Harry gandered around and right away he spotted a microphone stand, and next to it were standing, or maybe waiting, what could only be various types of guitars. There were a few more instruments, - Harry knew what sounds they would produce, but oddly enough he had never known or learned their names.

Then, quite suddenly, the instruments, in a show that made a mockery of any magic Harry knew, rose up into the air as if invisible musicians had joined him on the stage.

They began to play. It was loud, intense and not any kind of music the Dursleys had ever allowed him to listen to, and yet, he thought, he rather liked it. It was aggressive, fast and it birthed the urge to move in him.

As if he was guided by the music he walked over to the microphone, and just as his hand reached out to pluck it from the stand, he heard Dumbledore's voice from the distance. His eyes went up and there he saw the old man, right arm raised high, his hand forming the Mano Cornuta.

"Music," said Dumbledore with emotion. "A magic that transcends everything."

The omnipresent darkness suddenly began pressing down on Harry.

He quickly grabbed the microphone and raised it to his mouth. It was as if time was slowed down just for him. He heard his heart was beating a wild rhythm, he heard himself breath too quickly to keep track, he heard the blood rush through his ears.

A voice, deep and more growl than anything else whispered in the back of his mind.

Harry opened his mouth. He repeated after the voice in his head; it was one word and he felt compelled to growl it into the world.

"Awaken!"

Dumbledore's voice came to him, not from afar but from behind him. It was a comforting, encouraging whisper, filled with warmth and no little emotion, "Go forth and conquer, Master."

Then everything was dark and Harry knew no more.

* * *

Harry was lying in the strong arms of Hagrid when he came into awareness again.

The first thing that he knew with surety after waking was that he still wore the Invisibility Cloak; it was a cold feeling that reminded him of wetness for a single moment before he realised what it was. After that the realisation set in that he was not breathing.

The smell of petrichor and something more that was unique to the Forbidden Forest filled his nose as he took a first small breath to soothe the burning feeling in his lungs that clearly demanded oxygen of him.

It took his all not to give in to the physical need to cough and hack away and fill his lungs to the brim with breath after breath. He clenched his jaw, pressed his tongue against his teeth, forced himself not to tense up and then breathed in once more, slow and steady until the burning sensation in his lungs abated.

The heat of Hagrid's half-giant constitution radiating from his body relaxed the cramping muscles and heavy feeling in Harry's back. It calmed him somewhat, and when he could not hear anything but the shuffle of feets trudging over wet earth and the sobs of Hagrid, he dared to open one of his eyes just a millimeter.

He saw the dark black, blue and green of the canopy, a few shy stars peeping through the leaves and then he saw Hagrid's face, the tearstained beard, the swollen eyes, bloody cuts and gashes covering the dirty skin and it made him angry beyond any words he knew.

With that anger some sort of fullness made itself known behind his eyes. It was a dull feeling, and he would be hard pressed to describe it, yet he suddenly knew things!

"BANE!"

Hagrid's unexpected roar and his movement shook Harry, allowing him to glimpse some more of what was happening. He saw the silhouettes of centaurs and then he was being shifted, almost gently.

"Happy now, are yeh, that yeh didn' fight, yeh cowardly bunch o' nags? Are yeh happy Harry Potter's dead?"

From afar a familiar voice, calmly and with melody to it began to chant, "Oh, the Doomstar is born, oh the deathly light. And the star will turn to blood on this prophet's night…"

Immediately when the voice finished, the thunderous claps of a hundred pairs of hooves stamping onto the hard earth hollered through the night and tension laden sounds of pawing followed.

"Silence!" commanded the high and cold voice of Voldemort a bit too quickly.

But the centaurs were either not listening or they cared nothing for what the cripple of a wizard had to say. They behaved like they'd been put under a charm, and one after they began to join into a whisper of repetition. It was just one word spoken over and over again, and it filled the night with a haunting echo of cruel premonition: "Doomstar!"

It was the magic of which Dumbledore had spoken when all the hundreds of students had opened their mouths to croak their adolescent voices to the tune of Hogwarts' song; a special brand, unique and powerless when it came to the broader spectrum of magical things, and yet… it roused something in everyone listening.

Here now, some Death Eaters felt fear at this unpredictable situation, others were filled with anticipation of battle, eager even to finally let loose and kill, destroy and tear apart and still others wished for nothing more than to be done with it all.

Hagrid on the other hand knew this behavior. It was something he had seen never before and yet his intricate knowledge of magical creatures allowed him to be wary. Centaurs, he knew, behaved like this when destiny was at play, and he knew not what to make of it all.

Voldemort though, so utterly assured of his own self, of his own status as a living, breathing immortal declared with unrestrained annoyance and no little coldness, "Kill them all."

The order was but a whisper out of the lipless mouth, easily drowned by the cacophony of chanting centaurs, and yet one eager follower listened.

Bellatrix Lestrange cackled her twisted, mad laugh as she drew her wand while she took a step towards the magical creatures which she so abhorred. The tip of the wooden stick glowed a toxic green, and then her head exploded into gore as a spear the size of a tree trunk went through it.

The chanting of the centaurs continued undisturbed, as if nothing had happened, whereas the Death Eaters and Voldemort himself too stood slack-faced, unsure of what they had just borne witness too had really happened.

A decuman head glanced through the thicket of branches and leaves above where the centaurs stood, eyes more black than white staring unblinkingly, a wicked grin revealing yellow teeth the size of boulders.

It was a familiar face staring down at Harry and all the other people and it took no little of Harry's selfcontrol not to burst out laughing, imagining what a sight it must have been to see Bellatrix Lestrange die a such pitiful death. Though he felt a little miffed at not having killed her himself.

All of a sudden the giant head moved. It took aim and then it breathed its rotten breath onto the crowd, growling some giant speech in imitation of the human tongue, "Bow before the Doomstar!"

"Grawp?" whispered Hagrid half with shock, half filled with pride at what his little brother had just done.

At the very same moment as Grawp, Hagrid's half-brother exclaimed "Hagger", Voldemort raised his high-pitched voice and called for his own giants to attack.

A bellow of giant speech, - a war-cry was the giants' response. Immediately they began to move, first slowly, each step thundering like a landslide going down a mountain, but then they picked up pace, and within seconds they reached the small giant.

"Run, Grawpy," Hagrid cried as he took a few hurried steps towards his younger brother, unintentionally shaking Harry's body with his movement.

Though too small to be called a full-grown giant, Grawp had through the circumstances of being brought into the realm of man developed wit that most of his kin was lacking. He dodged the first of the two giants running at him, and caused the second to stumble and crash into his brethren.

Grawp laughed at the downed giants, a sound not unlike rocks being split or gravel being crushed, and then quickly returned his gaze to Hagrid.

"No run, Hagger," Grawp declared and reached his decuman hand towards the half-giant.

"You dare defy Lord Voldemort's orders? Crucio!"

However the torture curse had no effect on Grawp, too effective the resistance of the giant's skin was against one of the most unforgivable magic known to wizardkind.

Almost gently Grawp picked up Hagrid with Harry in his arms, and abruptly moved back, hurrying his gigantic body with swift steps towards where he had been hidden before.

Jets of green lights and furious shouts followed them, but Grawp was too fast on his feet to be caught.

Harry couldn't hold it in any longer. He opened wide his eyes, grinned broadly, all teeth and bloodied gums and then laughed a hysterical laugh into the wind that rushed at him.

He stared up at the gobsmacked Hagrid whose wide eyes were watering, and where before fear and anger had lapped at him, now his facial muscles hidden underneath the thicket of coarse beard tensed up into a slack expression.

"Wha–?" stammered Hagrid. "Yeh're … alive?" It but was a whisper filled with awe and hope, carrying the release from the weight that had been hoisted upon the half-giant the moment he had seen Harry Potter die, had been forced to pick up the cold body and carry it through the forest. It was pure relief. "Yeh are alive!"

Hagrid laughed, wet and loud while a runlet of tears began to roll down his bloodied cheeks.

Together they laughed as Grawp hurried his massive body with thunderous steps through the Forbidden Forest, head glancing back every few moments to ensure that nobody was chasing after them.

* * *

They had arrived at the cave Hagrid and Grawp had hidden in before within a few long seconds after taking flight from Voldemort and his Death Eaters.

Hagrid sat at the burnt out firepit with Grawp awkwardly patting him on the back, while Harry stood staring into the dark that had encased the Forbidden Forest.

A thunderstorm of unnatural origin was brewing above Hogwarts, its thunder rolling over the Forbidden Forest, lightning arcing with hundreds of branches through the yet still clear sky.

In Harry's hand the Resurrection Stone had dug itself a home. It was buried deep in his flesh, fused to the bone like some cancerous growth waiting for its host to weaken until it could spread.

He waved the hand, pain free as it was in morbid curiosity. For a short moment he entertained the idea to rip the Stone out of his skin, thirsting to see what would happen, how it would feel, but then he discarded the thought and balled the hand into a fist.

"I'll kill them," promised Harry, and there was no question as to who he was speaking of.

Hagrid shook his head, beard whipping left and right, but then resignation flashed through his face. "Yeh really mean tha'?"

Turning around to face the half-giant, Harry just stared at him blankly, as if to convey just how stupid a question it was.

Lightning flashed behind him, and for just a heartbeat at most it looked as if Harry was a different person; long hair instead of his wild nest of untamed black, face angular and hard, eyes shining murderously instead of the dull green with irritated red marking the white.

Hagrid swallowed audibly. "Yeh wand, 'Arry – Yeh-Kno… V-Voldemort has it still."

Harry nodded to that, flexing his right hand while one after another fingers rubbed over the Resurrection Stone's smooth and cold surface. "I know," said he with a grimace twisting into a smile. "I suppose I will have to do it the old-fashioned way then."

"Ol'-fashioned?" asked Hagrid with wide eyes. "Wha' do yeh mean?"

"I'll do something stupid," replied Harry ominously. He flexed his hands around an invisible throat, just as he remembered himself doing to the creature in his dream.

"'Arry…" Hagrid looked terrified for a short moment, - and then, as if all the events from before had flashed past his eyes, steel replaced the weakness and he grunted, "Aye. Cannae say 's no better than they deserve!" He walloped his thighs with both his fists. "Kin yeh do it? Kill'em? Without yeh wand..."

"Don't you worry about that, Hagrid," said Harry and with that he changed the topic. "Do you know if there are any thestrals around?"

"Wha'?" Hagrid scratched at his face, crusted blood breaking away under his touch. "Yeh kin be sure there's some of'em around 'ere." He gestured vaguely toward the Forbidden Forest with one of his dustbin-sized hands. "With all tha' blood... They'll be waitin' for their feast."

"Good. I need a ride."

The sound of rocks hitting rocks drew Hagrid's attention away from where Harry stood at the rim of the somewhat brighter darkness reaching its way into the cave.

Grawp was attempting to procure some fire, clever though he was, clumsily he worked the small stones in failed attempts one after another.

Harry watched Hagrid crack a grin at that.

The half-giant gestured for his little brother to hand over the stones and with quick and well-practiced movements Hagrid set about to make a fire. As soon as the small flames had picked up their lively dance, his gaze returned to the entrance of the cave only to find that Harry was gone.

* * *

Standing amidst a dozen of tarblack leathery winged horses, Harry leaned bonelessly into the flank of the biggest, and oldest thestral, one hand busying itself with rubbing between its wings, the hand with the Resurrection Stone being slobbered and gnawed upon by two other beasts. They already had licked away all the blood on his clothes, and now were oddly drawn to the Hallow.

Harry had not needed to search for the thestrals; as soon as he had stepped into the Forbidden Forest, the beasts had found him, as if etched into their hearts was the natural law, the commandment to come forth to the deprived human wearing the Stone for skin.

While his hands were occupied, a plan was forming in Harry's head. He knew well enough what he wished to do, the knowledge with which he had woken allowing him a great amount of ideas how to carry it out. Still, some planning was required.

Suddenly the surrounding sounds became unnaturally quiet; all the liveliness that before could be heard in the Forbidden Forest,- the breathing of the wind, the movement of branches and leaves, the low volume gibbering of critters and magical creatures, it all was suddenly gone. This haunting silence of the Forbidden Forest beckoned Harry to hurry.

He ceased his affectionate caress and swung himself on the back of the biggest thestral.

If ever there was a good time to get started, then it was this.

Voldemort's voice, amplified to reach as far and wide as the range of Hogwarts' ground was big, sounded through the Forbidden Forest.

"Harry Potter is dead. Surrender and you will be spared… His body lies in the Forest, never to be seen again… Surrender, deluded ones!"

Lightning flashed above Harry's position as if to disagree with the cripple of a wizard.

Harry grunted a laugh, leaning forward to get a good grip on the leathery skin. It wouldn't do to fall off once they were skyborne.

"Tally ho! Scrambles–"

The ancient looking thestral, newly dubbed 'Scrambles' unfolded its batlike wings in one fluid motion only to burst into a galop. After a few steps it began to beat its wings and they took off.

As soon as they were up and beyond the Forbidden Forest, Harry growled, "–To Dumbledore's tomb!"

Scrambles let out a screech-like roar, tipped its head into the wind and off they went.

* * *

Hogwarts' last ring of defense, the magicks of all teachers, parents and all the free witches and wizards having joined the final stand against Voldemort with their last strength of will thrown into it, shielding the sanctuary of learning from the final minutes of onslaught - it was failing, and with one last mighty shudder wrecking through the opalescent dome, Voldemort and all his ilk returned onto the grounds of Hogwarts.

Following, enraged by the loss of his perfect victory apparently Voldemort let loose; akin to a supreme deity of war that deigned itself to take a leisurely stroll upon Hogwarts' grounds this very night, felling walls, tearing down towers, shedding blood, striking dread, fear and terror into the minds of those that survived the encounter.

Harry got a glimpse of it from the distance, from where he stood on the small isle in the middle of the Great Lake. Behind him Scrambles was sniffing at the rotting corpse of Albus Dumbledore, the spells that had kept the body in pristine condition having been broken by Voldemort pillaging the tomb for the Elder Wand.

Harry saw the last battle of this war, heard the cries of people dying and the bangs of spells colliding, and oh how a small part of him wished he could be there and fight and unleash all the anger in his chest, but it wasn't meant to be - instead he stood still and thought of what he needed.

Harry waved his right hand and not unlike a ripple in a pond, reality seemed to oscillate for a brief moment before a ghostly stage shimmered into view. It filled all of the isle, easily reaching into the waters with some of its girders. On it, speakers twice the size of Grawp filled the background, whereas in the front dozens of instruments laid waiting.

Scrambles raised its head. Something was dangling between canine teeth. The thestral whipped its head in a quick motion upwards and snapped at whatever it had picked up. A crunching sound followed and Harry quickly came to realise that it must have been a bone.

"Well," said Harry then with a blank face. "I am sure the Headmaster wouldn't mind."

As if to agree with him, Scrambles chewed some more, audibly, crunching away.

"It's not like he's needing it anymore, right?"

He was not expecting an answer, still his eyes lingered for a short moment on the thestral.

Only when another loud bang, followed within moments by a tremor wrecking through the earth he was stood upon, his attention snapped back to what he was trying to accomplish.

Waves splashed wildly against the isle, easily threatening to spill over and cover the land with water.

Accepting the obvious fact that he had to hurry, Harry attempted to climb upon the stage he had willed into existence only to fall through and stumble face first into the wet muddy grass.

Without uttering a single word Harry clambered to his feet, left hand going up to drag the mix of water and mud off his face. He spat a bit of grass and what tasted like sandy earth to the side and turned his gaze on the grey, almost translucent stage.

Harry wiped his hands clean as he walked some few steps away from the stage, the water of the Great Lake reaching up to his knees. When he came to a halt he turned around glared coldly at his creation.

The earthshaking rumble of explosions mixed with blood-curdling screams filling the air was Harry's cue to action. He began to sprint towards the stage, jumping off the ground a few metres before he reached it, growling, "Don't be a dildoooooooooooooo!"

Magic carried him along, and when he landed without making a sound, one knee and hand on the surprisingly warm and soft stage to stabilise him, he grudgingly muttered his thanks.

At the same moment Harry as straightened up, Scrambles screeched when a sudden jet of bright lightning zoomed into the air with the sound of liquid glass dripping into water, its twisting and coiling branches strewn across the night's firmament, as if reaching out to connect all the little shiny stars into one giant mesh.

The mesh of stars began to fall, raining down myriads of white-hot rays onto the earth, scorching a few flying creatures the instant it touched upon them. It pierced through friend and foes alike; from where he saw the spectacle, Harry could see some witches or wizards graced with situational awareness conjuring colourful lights for their own protection, whereas he saw others simply drop like puppets with their strings cut.

Harry turned around, his gaze wandering to the instruments. He could see ghostly hands picking up the guitars. The drumsticks began to float into position and the microphone sailed towards himself.

"Ready?"

Upon voicing his question the speakers turned on and the acoustic feedback of the guitars whined loudly through the air.

Harry licked his lips. Memories that weren't his own rose up in his mind. He grinned. Emergency Broadcasting System indeed.

* * *

The brutal shredding howls of guitars and the thunderous beating of drums froze any fighting from one moment to the other.

Spells sailed past the people they were aimed at, the giants forgot to swing their clubs, the werewolves curled into small bundles of whimpering fur and the vampires panicked as if the sun was about to rise in the very next minute.

"Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hoggy Warty Hogwarts! It's 11:59. Klok keeps ticking further!"

The voice reverberated through the very essence of all that was Hogwarts, filling the air, the earth and the sky, the hearts and the souls of anyone listening,

Thunderclouds began to rapidly form in the sky, swelling and growing until they covered all of the horizon yonder the Great Lake. Recurring flashes of lightning illuminated all of Hogwarts with eery, soft light.

A face formed in the clouds, with wild hairs that sood untamed left and right, a broken pair of glasses sitting askew on the nose. A jagged scar, faint and barely visible in the tumultuous movement of the grey and black clouds, was painted from forehead down to cheek.

"POTTER!" a dozen or more voices cried. Some were murderous, others pure rage, and still others were filled with pure relief. Yet the loudest of them all was Voldemort's.

The face in the clouds opened its mouth, and with it the guitars and the drums beat, howled and laughed a mocking tune into the world.

Jets of green light were flung at the clouds, only to pass through them harmlessly.

The guitars and drums returned to play the melody they were playing before, and Harry's face glared with malice down at the people who had their wands pointed at the clouds.

"The time has come, to awaken him," spoke Harry from the isle in the middle of the Great Lake, the microphone carrying his voice to the clouds, which in turn spread it as far and wide as the wind would breath it.

"I call upon the ancestors of these lands, to bring forth this beast, and awaken, awaken, awaken, awaken. Retake the land, that was forcibly taken. Awaken, awaken, awaken, awaken. Devour Dark Wizards, smite forsaken!"

From where Harry stood on the stage, elevated well above the ground of the isle in the middle of the Great Lake he had the perfect view upon the spectacle:

Four long and dark-red arms and two even longer tentacles, clearly belonging to the Giant Squid shot out of the hitherto calm waters. They thrashed around wildly, hitting the water, sending waves to ebb against the shores. Bubbles rose from around where the arms were, giving the impression of boiling water.

To anyone watching it might have looked as if the Giant Squid was in pain, being boiled alive by whatever magicks Harry Potter was working, but the truth couldn't be farther than that. It was dancing with joy!

Without missing a beat Harry's voice continued, "Rise up from your thousand year-old sleep. Break forth from your grave eternally. I command you to rise, rise, rise, rise, rise, rise, rise, rise."

The rhythmic beating of the drums and the melodic whining of the guitars underlined his chant, taunting Voldemort with their power, with their magic, with the voice that carried the song to end this play of prophecy.

Meanwhile Voldemort, foregoing all the enemies that stood near motionless around him, their eyes transfixed on the ghostly head in the clouds, mouths agape, waved the Elder Wand with elegant motions. Most of his body turned to some sort of elastic, thick, tarlike smoke, and then, with a snarl, he began to rise into the air, flying towards the mountain of clouds.

Voldemort extended his arm, sending spell after spell at the clouds he was closing in on.

The Dark Mark burst forth from the knobby, bone-white wand. Like a snake, the spell crawled into the sky, green and black particles forming the symbol that was feared throughout all of Magical Britain. It rose before the humongous thunderclouds, blocking the view upon the disturbingly grim face of Harry Potter.

"Where are you hiding Potter? Who is protecting you this time around?" Voldemort roared his questions with fury against the flashes of lighting, the beating of the drums and the howls of the guitars and still, Harry heard him.

Seeing through the eyes of his head in the clouds, Harry stared at the cripple flying before his nose. He wished to speak, to spit his hatred at this flying insect, to reach out and to swat him down but the song in his head was still yet to be finished.

"No more accidents, no more sacrifices to protect you, Potter! No more men or women to fall in your stead! You die, tonight!" jeered Voldemort's high voice as he gestured madly with his half-transformed arms.

The music's magic shattered the Dark Mark. Below its remnants, upon the final call to rise, the Giant Squid raised itself out of the dark and wild waters, torrents of water running down its massive body.

Collective sounds of unrest went through the people who, under the light of the lightning flashing above the Great Lake, for the first time ever saw the full size of the Giant Squid.

Then a cheer followed and Harry could only speculate as to what they might be thinking.

Harry's voice continued, undaunted by the spectacle, "I'm the conjurer of your demons, I'm the Master of your Death. I bring forth the ancient Gryffin, I control his every breath."

Voldemort, aflight before the clouds, waved the Elder Wand in a wide arc, a malicious grin splitting his lipless mouth much like a snake would unhinge its jaw before swallowing prey.

The dome of thunderclouds shuddered, parts of it breaking away.

"I instigate your misfortune, with the birth of killing Horcrux'."

Voldemort tumbled, the control over his flight suddenly lacking.

"I awaken armageddon, feeding on your crippled soul. Awaken, awaken, awaken, awaken!"

Harry's voice fell quiet, leaving the music of the guitars and the drums to carry over the battlefield.

A merciless roar of hatred spilled from Voldemort's mouth, just as much as it was a cry of denial. The dome of clouds shattered, Harry's head disappearing in the last remnants of lightning arcing through the sky.

It was too late, however, to stop what Harry had set in motion. The Giant Squid walked in an imitation of a man. Its strides lead it to the shore, where it suddenly shrank.

The people who stood close to the Great Lake shied away, and fled, whereas others seemed to edge closer to get a better look of what was happening.

Just as the now not so giant Giant Squid reached the shoreline, in an instant it changed its form and colour and then, where before had been a two meter tall cephalopod now stood a tall man with broad shoulders and decidedly violently curly, red hair.

The music suddenly died allowing the reactions of people to carry through the quiet night.

"Godric's–," began someone with squeaky tone.

"– Hairy bollocks!" exclaimed another voice loudly.

* * *

Heads went flying, brains, and blood sprayed on the ground in a rainfall of gore. And all of it happened within moments of the music stopping.

Harry was processing slowly what he had done. He had known, vaguely enough, what would happen if he were to sing that type of song. But– "He's naked."

The guitar to Harry's left let out a pitiful whine, and though it had no eyes to look, it seemed to avoid facing into the direction the very naked, very hairy man was in.

"Huh – he's naked and he's killing Death Eaters with his bare fists?"

The drums rolled a mocking tune that yet seemed to agree with Harry's disbelieving question.

"Fuck! I honestly did not expect that," said Harry with astonishment. "That's fucking brutal." After a second he added, "Kind of disgusting too." Indeed it was much like with an gruesome accident - he simply could not avert his eyes.

Harry lowered the microphone to his side, the song with its lyrics gone from his mind.

"Harry Potter. There you are. All alone, hiding at Dumbledore's tomb," came the cruel voice of Voldemort from nearby. It was a taunting and yet murderous level with which he spoke and there was no denying that he had reached the end of his patience. "It won't help you. No more running, little boy!"

With barely enough time to look up, saw Harry the inhumane floating form before him.

"Now you die! Avada Kedavra!" cried Voldemort, and green light exploded towards Harry.

Harry raised his right hand in defense out of sheer reflex. The microphone fell from his hand to the stage, joining in with the ghostly material, disappearing as if it had never existed in the first place, but not before an acoustical feedback was fed from the microphone to the speakers, and back in a cycle until the microphone was gone.

The jet of green spelllight hit Harry's palm, and without any great threatrics was drawn into the Resurrection Stone. Harry's face belied his shock when the spell flickered out without so much as a sound to give its fearsome history credit. Voldemort, at the same time, seemed in pain from the acoustical feedback hammering into his ears. His hands were pressing to his head, his eyes were pressed shut.

Without thinking Harry threw himself forward, his hands going up and with a mad cry he seized the cripple around his throat and dragged him back down to the stage.

The red eyes snapped open and immediately a hand began to claw at Harry's wrists and hands, and his arms. Harry's eyes widened as he pressed tighter.

The Elder Wand fell from Voldemort's right hand as it joined in to find leverage to lessen the pressure on his throat.

The primal fear of death with ease reduced him to nothing more than a simple man; all the confidence was gone, all the magical superiority, all the learnt magicks – they were of no help with his sudden struggle for breath.

Voldemort's red eyes bulged out of their sockets, his lower jaw frantically was moving up and down as if he was trying to force-feed himself air. It was of no use, too tight a grip was settled around his throat.

Harry growled a disturbing sound reminiscent of a laugh at the struggling as his grip tightened once more. He felt his tendons burn, and it hurt, but oh how glorious a pain it was! It was a pain he would enjoy feeling for as long as it permitted itself to stay, and he would enjoy it for the memento that it would be!

Sweat was running down Harry's face, and his chest heaved with rapid breaths. He could distantly hear, and clearly feel his heart hammering away, and still, almost greedily he drank in the sight of the man dying by his hands. It was hypnotic.

And it was nothing more than the sort of death this cripple deserved: out of view, in private, and without great struggle or mighty duel fought to the bitter end. It was a death without fantastic magicks, plebeian to the last breath.

The spasms wrecking through the frail body lessened. Harry's eyes sought the paling red eyes with their bloodshot veins for the last glimmer of life to fade out like a candle that had burnt away all the wax it could live off.

Then he saw it. The spark shone bright one last time and then it was gone – the struggling ceased, the hands that had been clutched to Harry's arms, digging into his skin and flesh with their animalistic claws fell limp to the sides.

It took a few attempts for Harry to open his hands. Then he succeeded, and with an inaudible gasp of surprise he realised that he was shaking. After a few deep breaths that failed their purpose of calming him, he shakily reached up to put away the hairs that clung to his damp and sweaty forehead.

The dead body began to slowly sink through the ghostly stage.

Harry swayed slightly. He felt as if someone had replaced all his blood and muscles above the throat with cotton wool.

Voldemort was dead. The realisation settled itself like lead into his guts. He had won. It was over. Yet–

All of a sudden furious thoughts overtook him. Harry's face shifted into a grimace of furor and with all his might he kicked against the dead body again and again, all the while curses, nonsensical words and spittle began to fly from his mouth.

Only when red and black blood began to fly wildly through the air, some of it hitting his face and some parts of his clothings, did Harry stop.

He exhaled gustily, his head tilting back, and with final cry of whatever rage was in him, Harry slumped to his knees.

He began to laugh.

The instruments then disappeared and the stage shrunk until Harry sat on the wet muddy grass of the isle.

It was over.

Harry scratched at his right hand. Suddenly a defibrillator, translucent and with a bright golden shine to it and a pack of beers appeared before him.

Scrambles trudged over to him, butting his nose against Harry's head.

It was time to revive some people.


End file.
